Stage Fright
by Nyx6
Summary: [Midsomer Murders] When a quiet night at the local theatre turns deadly it looks like just another case for city boy Scott and his DCI but when things get personal it ends up being anything but ordinary as the countryside strikes again! Please review!
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue.**

Scott jerked awake as his mobile phone went off, pouring out bright light from the small screen, and bathing the room in a luminous blue glow that proved surprisingly blinding.

Scott groaned as he rolled over to face the bedside table, his eyes screwed shut against the brightness wishing his ears could do the same as the repetitive strains of the Nokia theme assaulted his sleep-fuddled brain. He flung out a hand, fumbling clumsily over the bedside table and groaning as he listened to his watch slide across the wood and thud onto the carpet.

Grasping his phone, he squinted sleepily at the buttons before him, pressing one and holding it to his ear,

"Hello?" He mumbled, running a hand over his face in exhaustion.

"Scott?"

He bit back the urge to laugh. Who else would call at such an hour? He yawned lazily, pushing himself up against his pillows with some effort.

"Sir," he replied drowsily. On the other end of the phone, Barnaby sounded as though he'd been awake for hours. Scott looked over at his alarm clock, 2:00am, he sighed.

"Scott, I'm on my way to pick you up, I know who killed Jenna Rigby, and I think Lance Davenport is in danger,"

Scott blinked blearily around his room, trying to establish some focus, and gave a sleepy nod.

"Ok Sir. Be ready in five."

As he shut off the call and let the silence settle back down in his room like a sheet, he resisted the urge to slide back down into the covers and close his eyes. The last thing he wanted was Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby at his front door with the engine running, and foolproof explanation for their latest case, and him in his boxer shorts with his hair in disarray.

He rubbed at his face hard, glad when eyes opened more willingly. He flung back the bedclothes with a sigh of resignation. His boss was a policing genius, a legend. There was no crime that Barnaby could not eventually solve. He did however, have an unusual flare for making breakthroughs in the middle of the night.

It was a short stagger to the chair where Scott had flung his clothes earlier, intending the shirt at least for a good wash. He sighed as he shrugged it on, figuring it would have to last another day, or at least night.

By the time Barnaby arrived, announcing his arrival, and sense of urgency by sitting outside and tooting the horn, Scott was gulping down the last of a steaming mug of coffee, praying for the caffeine to kick in quickly and stop him from falling asleep in passenger seat.

"Sir," he greeted, hopping in next to the Inspector and slamming shut his door.

"Evening Scott," Barnaby wasted little time, roaring off down the road as Scott fumbled with his seatbelt in the darkness.

"Think you'll find it's morning actually Sir," he sighed.

As the car sped along the country road, the light of the moon creeping in through the gaps between the bare branches of the winter trees, Scott let his gaze drift out of the window. Beside him, Barnaby was carefully explaining his thought processes concerning the murder of Jenna Rigby, but Scott was finding it hard to concentrate. His mind drifted back to the dream he'd been having before Barnaby had interrupted his sleep. He frowned as flashes of Cully popped up in his mind's eye. Had he been dreaming of her?

"…So Jeffrey Morrissey killed Jenna Rigby, and Henry Gates in order to conceal the fact that Helen Adams was the illegitimate daughter of George Thompson, and therefore the lawful beneficiary of Olivia Thompson's will."

Barnaby stopped grandly, and Scott turned, blinking at him, aware that he really should have listened to the complete breakdown of the facts, and not just the conclusion.

"So…"

Barnaby, eyes on the road, filled his query without him even having finish the question,

"We need to get to Lance's Davenport's first."

Scott nodded, suppressing a sigh. Why were things never easy in the country?


	2. Chapter 2

**One.**

Barnaby was grinning from ear to ear. He was tired, worn, and had barely slept for two days, but he was elated.

His jacket flapped open as he strode down the corridor, rounding the corner and vaulting the stairs up into the CID open office. He smiled as his eyes fell on Scott, a drained looked figure leant over his desk, head in hands, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, for all the world looking to be studying a file that lay open on the desk.

Barnaby knew better.

"Scott!" he chirped briskly, striding over and throwing down another folder before the dark-haired DS, who looked up with a start. Scott looked slowly from the file to his boss, a frown sliding across his face as he looked at the paper before him.

"Who's this?" he asked, picking it up.

Barnaby stood back, looking pleased. He leant over to stab at the paper with a finger,

"That is Jeffrey Morrissey's father…" The look on Barnaby's face told Scott that he was expected to make a certain response. He paused to take in the photo before him,

"Looks just like George Thompson,"

Barnaby nodded, and leant over to take the paper back.

"Exactly."

Scott stood up and walked around the other side of his desk, leaning back against it, facing his boss as he tried to piece everything together, wondering, why he couldn't have a straightforward case, for just once.

"So, Jeffrey Morrissey's father was the illegitimate son of George Thompson by Annie Rigby, which meant he would have been beneficiary, until Helen Adams turns up with a stronger claim."

Barnaby nodded, and took over the story,

"So Jenna Rigby had to go because she found her grandmother's letters, Henry Gates was the only one old enough to remember Helen existence, and Lance Davenport, who found the photo of Jeffrey Morrissey's father in Olivia Thompson's files nearly became victim number three,"

Scott shook his head in disbelief,

"I don't know Sir, they tell you things are more simple in the country. At least in the cities you know what you're getting, a mugging, a burglary, but here…a murder over a one hundred year old affair and two illegitimate children trying to claim a six hundred year-old estate. All seems a bit barmy to me."

Barnaby threw his eyes to the heavens, a smile creeping across his lips. He doubted Scott would ever truly find peace with his country placement, but it was amusing watching him try none the less.

"Sir," Barnaby turned to find a uniformed officer standing, almost nervously in front of them. Barnaby smiled warmly at him,

"Yes, how may I help?"

The officer turned a shade of crimson and cleared his throat,

"Err, Cully Barnaby here to see you Sir,"

Barnaby smiled,

"Oh! Thank you!"

The officer turned a deeper shade of red, clearly a little panicked,

"Err, no Sir," he gabbled, "Not you," he turned to Scott embarrassed, "_You_ Sir,"

Scott blinked,

"Me?"

The officer nodded, and Scott exchanged a puzzled look with his boss, who simply shrugged. Scott put down his file, intrigued and followed the officer towards the reception, trying to check the smile creeping across his face. A smile, which didn't go unnoticed by Barnaby.

Cully was standing in the reception casting her eyes over the notice board. Scott smiled as he spotted her, browsing through the leaflets, adverts and appeals all pinned before her. She was wrapped up warmly against the cold, a big thick coat and a fluffy pink scarf wrapped firmly around her neck.

Scott had never known anyone like her, the girls from where he'd come from were all completely self-sufficient, engaged and with kids by their early twenties, loud, confident. Not that Cully wasn't confident or self-sufficient, but in a totally different way. To Scott, she was the personification of the term 'the-girl-next-door.'

He sighed as he drew closer to her, and threw his eyes to the sky. It was not a good idea to fall for the boss' daughter. Soft spot, that was what he had for her. A soft spot. Nothing else.

"Daniel!" she turned to him with a genuine smile, and he felt his throat close up. He cleared it quickly,

"Cully. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I need you to do me a favour," she asked, her face screwing up as if she were about to ask for something outrageous. She paused,

"Go on," he sighed, trying to sound grudging but the cheeky smile across his face giving away his delight.

"Well, I've got tickets to the Theatre for Thursday…"

Scott felt the smile turning to a grin,

"…and you see, I was wondering, well, Roger's best friend is in town and she doesn't know anyone, and if we went as a threesome it might be a bit, well, awkward, for her. So I was wondering if you would come as well."

The smile faded,

"Wait a minute," Scott frowned, "You're going with Roger?"

Cully's face folded in confusion,

"Well, yes,"

"And you want me to go with you and take Roger's friend…"

"Louise…" Cully added. Scott sighed. Spending the evening with Roger Parker, he couldn't think of anything worse. Except maybe an evening with Roger and Cully together. He pulled a face,

"Well…I don't know, I mean…" he stopped to look at her, her face hopeful, and let out a deep sigh, "Sure. Be glad to."

Cully's face lit up, and she put a gloved hand on his arm,

"Thank you. I knew you'd do it. You're a lifesaver, I owe you."

Scott gave her a look of mock severity,

"I'll hold you to that."

She smiled,

"I'll pick you up at seven,"

He managed a weak smile and she shouldered her bag once more,

"Is my dad still here?"

Scott nodded, and watched her role her eyes. She shook her head at him with a grin,

"Send him home will you, mum's forgetting what he looks like!"

Scott laughed and walked her to the door, pushing it open for her. She turned to him, her face warm,

"Thanks again Dan,"

He smiled,

"No problem."

He let the door swing shut behind her, and watched as she walked across the car park, his head dropping as he closed his eyes, suddenly aware how tired he was once again.

He sighed.

That had not gone the way he had been hoping. He turned to head back to the office, cursing another bad day in the country.


	3. Chapter 3

**Two.**

Scott peered down the aisle in disbelief.

He was crying. Roger Parker was bloomin' well crying. Sitting in his seat, face flushed bright red, dabbing at his eyes with a tissue. But that wasn't the worst part, the worst part was Cully, one arm around him, the other rubbing his back comfortingly, looking both concerned and touched.

Scott snorted a little too loudly, and fell back into his seat with a groan.

Three seats up, Roger took a deep sniff, dabbed at his eyes, and flashed a pitiful smile at Cully and Louise,

"Oh dear, I'm sorry. It's just that number, just before the curtain, it's so sombre, it's just such a fitting musical commentary of Catherine's raging emotions. One note says more than a thousand words -," he trailed off, voice breaking once more, and lifted the tissue to his eyes again.

Scott let out a deep sigh and threw his eyes skywards.

Beside him, Louise turned her attention away from her crying friend, her face soft, amused and deeply touched,

"He's always been this way, even at school," she said to him, gazing fondly back at Roger for a second, "He's always been so easily touched by music, and the plight of others, he's such a sensitive person,"

Scott gave a disinterested nod.

"I don't doubt it," he replied dryly, keeping his eyes on the stage, praying for the second half to start so that it could finish. Louise didn't pick up on the sarcasm however, and carried on,

"But I suppose there's one in every school isn't there?"

As Scott realised that she was asking him something, he turned back to her,

"Hmm?"

Her face was serious, questioning,

"A sensitive child in every school? There was one in yours I bet?"

Scott nodded,

"Oh err – several,"

He didn't like to mention that at his school, those types of children usually spent their days being roughed up behind the bike sheds, or pelted with food in the canteen.

"If you'll excuse me everyone," sniffed Roger, levering himself from his seat, tissue in hand, "I think I need to compose myself for the second half,"

Scott rolled his eyes. How pompous could one man be?

Louise was straight out of her seat, grabbing at her handbag,

"I'll come with you Rogey!" she cooed adoringly. Scott let the relief of having the pair of them out of the way wash over him, and turned to Cully, who smiled over at him, her face sympathetic,

"Poor Roger," she said softly. Scott gave a slow, single nod, deciding it would be better to stay quiet. She looked at him playfully, and he could see a hint of amusement flickering through her eyes. He smiled back, glad that some part of her at least found Roger amusing, even if she would never admit it.

"So what about you?" she asked, "Feeling emotional?"

Scott grinned and sat back, stretching his legs as far as they would go and relishing the space and chance to straighten up after the last one and a half hours of being cramped in the small uncomfortable wooden seats with spasms running up and down his legs.

"Even if I was I don't think I'd be able to top Roger," he yawned and glanced at Cully, who was smiling pityingly,

"Yes. Poor Roger," she repeated, as if trying to convince herself. She turned to look round up the rows behind her as the lights dimmed slowly, "They'd better hurry, otherwise they'll miss the second half."

Scott moved up a seat, grinning cheekily in the dark as he sat down next to Cully.

"Wouldn't that be a disaster," he muttered, grinning wider as she turned to look at him in disapproval.

"Dan!" she hissed, unable to stop the smile from spreading across her face as she shook her head at him in defeat.

The curtain opened in a series of jerking movements, revealing the set, and two actors perched awkwardly on old chairs that looked like they needed a good beating out.

As the actors began the scene, and bustled backwards and forwards, Scott let his gaze wonder over the finer points of the play. The programme, in its short introduction to the play, had described the main character as 'young.' He looked up, the woman before him was easily in her late forties, and she was the youngest. He watched as a flimsy set door opened in the background and an elderly man shuffled out, gasping for breath at the short exertion. Behind him, a hand appeared and banged the door shut once more.

Scott resisted the urge to die in his seat. To him it seemed more of a comedy than a serious dramatic production.

He glanced behind him as a light shone down the aisle, and sighed as he watched the figures of Roger and Louise emerge out of the double doors, carrying drinks.

However, as he watched Roger and Louise peer down every aisle in search of theirs, something else caught his attention. His and everyone else's.

There was a scream.

Someone on stage let out a terrified scream.

He spun at once. The main character had her hands clamped to her face and her eyes were focussed on the ceiling above, hidden by the stage curtains and plaster façade. Scott frowned, wondering what he'd missed, and why her acting hadn't been so convincing in the first act. It was as the audience began to shift uncomfortably, and as all the other actors to turned their attentions to the ceiling with gasps and looks of horror, that a familiar feeling began to rise.

Surely not?

Suddenly, the screaming intensified as a figure fell from above and landed on the stage with a thud. Scott narrowed his eyes on the figure, hoping it was a dummy, all a practical joke. His hopes were dashed however on seeing the knife protruding from the figure's back.

On stage, more people screamed, joined by the half-stunned, half-terrified audience, and at once actors and actresses began rushing to move away from the scene.

Beside him, Cully looking stunned, turned to him in shock.

Scott was up at once, moving towards the stage, the policeman inside him taking full control. He needed to check the victim, in case they were alive, though judging by the fall he seriously doubted it. Then, if his worst fears were confirmed, he needed everyone to stay where they were.

He pushed past panicking middle-aged woman clutching at their handbags, and confused old men struggling from their seats and vaulted up onto the stage.

He studied the body, curled in a heap before the prop-staging fireplace complete with fake flames made from tissue paper. His fingers rested briefly on what he could see of the neck, feeling for a pulse.

Nothing.

He sighed.

"Here we go again," he muttered, standing up, "Ladies and Gentlemen!" he shouted above the confusion. Luckily no one had left, stopped by confused theatre staff who were crowding the exits, "Ladies and Gentlemen! Please stay seated…Stay where you are!" he bellowed, relieved as a quiet sense of bewilderment settled..

The actors and prop hands were gathered on the stage, horrified, comforting one another and shaking their heads in shock. All eyes were fixed on the body, and Scott grabbed at a sheet that was being used as a curtain, pulling it from the scenery to drape gently over the body.

He sighed. Was a simple night at the theatre too much to ask?

He pulled out his phone, dialling the number at the top of his phone book.

"Sir? It's Scott, I think you need to come down to the Marette Wilson Theatre Sir, there's been an...err…there's been an _incident_."

"Rogey!"

As Scott snapped shut his phone, there was a breathless moan from the audience, and he looked up in time to see Roger collapsing to the floor out for the count.

He threw his eyes to the heavens. Typical, that was all he needed.

What _did_ she see in that man?


	4. Chapter 4

**Three.**

Barnaby was not the first one on the scene. As he drew up alongside the theatre entrance and climbed from his car, he was greeted by a cacophony of chattering, talking and bustling. Uniformed officers were talking to blanket-clad, shocked theatre-goers, paramedics and staff were chipping in together and passing round hot drinks, and squad car lights mixed in with those of the ambulances to create a strange blue light-show that rotated slowly.

He slipped through the chaos like a professional, extending greeting nods to officers he recognised, eyes scanning for one particular person.

"Cully!"

She was standing by one of the ambulances. Peering in through the open doors and up into the bright lights, her coat pulled tightly around her. She turned to him, smiling in relief,

"Dad,"

He bustled over to her, resting a hand on her arm,

"Are you all right?"

She smiled, as if expecting such a question,

"I'm fine,"

There was the sound of a panicky voice from inside the ambulance, and he turned to look as a very pale figure, swathed in blankets slowly levered himself up from the trolley inside, a worried looking woman crouched on the floor next to him, her hand on his cheek, muttering his name.

Barnaby screwed up his eyes,

"Is that Roger?"

Cully, following his gaze, nodded,

"Yes. Poor Roger didn't take it very well at all I'm afraid."

Somehow, Barnaby wasn't terribly surprised. He looked back at his daughter.

"You're sure you're all right?"

She smiled again,

"Yes Dad, I'm fine,"

He nodded, still unconvinced,

"Scott inside is he?"

Cully nodded,

"Yes, someone arrived from forensics and he showed them in," she paused to consider Scott's role in the night's events, "I suppose it was just as well he was in the audience tonight,"

Barnaby took in her comment and smiled, mildly amused,

"I'm not sure he'd necessarily agree with you."

Cully shook her head softly,

"No, probably not."

A short silence fell between them, and Barnaby clapped his hands together to signal a subject change.

"Well, you'd better get home, your mother's waiting for you."

Cully nodded.

"Ok, thanks dad," she bent over, kissing him on the cheek, "I'll see you later."

He watched her head off across the car park, trying to push the fatherly concern away and focus on the task at hand. She'd been through much worse after all, and besides, Scott had been there the entire time. He frowned, did that mean he trusted Scott? Even more, did that mean he trusted Scott with his daughter? Knowing all he knew about Scott's general attitude to women, and his usual approach for that matter? He frowned inwardly as he thought, before a surprised smile crossed his face.

_I believe I do. _

"Sir?"

He turned. Someone in a uniform was in the doorway behind him, respectfully beckoning him over,

"This way Sir."

It had always fascinated Barnaby how quickly George Bullard responded to murders. It seemed to him sometimes as though the man lived in his overalls, forever going back and forth to corpses lying in mortuaries, or spread-eagled across rose patches, sixteenth century chaise lounges, and, when the occasion called for it, quiet village theatres.

George, identifiable from the various other officials, by his short, white hair, was bent over a prone form, crumpled in a heap towards the edge of the stage.

Scott was fairly easy to spot also, crouched down at the head of the body, gazing around the theatre as if for something to do. His eyes rested on Barnaby, and at once he stood up, trotting down the few steps into the aisle and striding towards him.

"Sir."

"Scott."

They greeted each other with the customary single head-nod, before Scott launched into his well-rehearsed breakdown of the facts.

"Victim; male, looks to be late forties, early fifties, fell from a metal walk-way above the stage used to control the curtain, at, approximately nine-forty…" Scott paused, and Barnaby looked away from where the body was lying, to his second-in-command, who seemed, almost uncomfortable, "You err, found Cully all right did you Sir?"

Barnaby smiled despite himself,

"Yes, yes thank you Scott. I sent her home. She's fine."

Scott nodded, looking relieved,

"Good."

As they wandered towards the stage, Scott realised that his boss was looking at him, a suspiciously cheeky smile across his face. Scott cleared his throat and gestured towards the body in embarrassment,

"Well, err, Mr. Bullard's almost done now Sir,"

He surged ahead, back up the stairs, and gazed down at the body. Barnaby let his amusement slide and instead, greeted his long-time friend.

"George,"

"Evening Tom,"

Barnaby crouched down, taking in the dark hair of the victim, and the worn but strong-looking face.

"So, what have we got George?"

George Bullard sat back with a sigh, flicking his hand dismissively as if the information retrieved was scarce.

"Well, I'd say late forties. Death appears to be from this stab wound here," he pulled at the victim's jacket with his gloved hands, and indicated a red stain seeping across the man's shirt, "And there appear to be multiple fractures," his finger skimmed across fierce bluey purple areas of skin, "Course I can't be sure 'til I get him back to the lab,"

Barnaby nodded, intently focussed on the victim. Slowly, he looked up,

"So we are looking for a murderer?"

George met his gaze, equally as serious.

"Well he didn't stab himself in the back."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Thanks for reviewing people! I recently discovered this half-written and decided to finish it and put it back up as a tibute to my fave sidekick! Glad to see I'm not alone!


	5. Chapter 5

**Four.**

It was at times such as these, that Scott realised just why country life was so trying.

It was eleven o'clock at night, in the middle of winter, one month from Christmas, and he was standing under a single light-bulb, in a small, dark room, surrounded by Shakespearean costumes, hand-painted, cardboard scenery, and a jittery, middle-aged amateur dramatics cast, dressed up like a Victorians.

"Terry Miller?" Scott asked again, as the plump woman pressed a shaking hand to her lips in distressed disbelief, and nodded, her eyes screwing shut tightly. As a single tear rolled down her face, she scrabbled in the petticoats of her dress, pulling out a tissue.

"Mmhmm," she nodded, eyes still shut tightly, "Yes, yes, it was -," she paused and broke into a sob, "– Poor Terry," she turned away, face buried into her tissue, her sobs coming out like a chicken clucking. An older woman, with a sour face and permed grey hair, marched up to her, taking her firmly round the shoulders, and steering her away like a invalid. As the plumper woman wandered blindly back to the heart of the group, the sour-faced woman who'd taken her away, turned back to Scott with a glare.

He blinked at her, waiting for something. When nothing was forthcoming, he decided to start things off,

"Err, you knew Mr. Miller?"

She continued to glare at him. Unblinking. Scott shifted under her gaze, and cleared his throat. Yes, the country certainly had its characters.

"I knew him," she snapped, so briskly that Scott almost jumped.

"Did you see anything before he…fell?" Scott ventured, notebook out in the hope of something useful.

"Course I didn't see anything. Eyes on the audience weren't they?" she bit back. Scott raised his brows, a thousand and one replies of his own on the tip of his tongue. He bit them back, and carried on regardless,

"Of course. In that case Mrs…"

"Miss. Long, I never married," she barked. Scott took a deep breath,

"In that case _Miss_. Long, can you think of anyone who would have a grudge against Mr. Miller?"

She looked away for a second, frowning in thought,

"Well, outside of the players I wouldn't know. But I _do_ know that Henry Kearns and he had a disagreement over who should play Catherine Sloper, of course, you'll notice that Abigail Shaw got the part. Hardly surprising since she and Terry have, or, _had_ been…well, you know," she sniffed, "Disgraceful really. Both married you know."

Scott raised his brows as he scribbled down some notes.

"Both married?"

Miss Long nodded,

"Oh yes."

Scott cast his eyes back over his scribblings,

"Who's Henry Kearns?"

Miss Long gave a dismissive sniff,

"He sits on the village theatre board. Very set in his ways, not extremely popular."

Scott managed a genuine-looking smile,

"Thank you Miss Long, we'll be in touch if we want to ask you anything else,"

Miss Long turned with a groan,

"I hope not," she muttered, shuffling off.

Scott's smile soured once she was out of earshot,

"Nice talking to you too."

Barnaby was standing in the aisle, talking to a tall, thin, grey-haired man, who kept pausing to run his hand through his hair, and push up his small-rimmed glasses.

Scott joined them, trotting down the stairs and across the garish red carpet, flipping shut his notebook.

"Ah, Scott, this is Mr. Arnold, he is the head of the theatre board,"

Scott nodded a greeting. Mr Arnold however, failed to notice, rubbing at his face with a hand.

"Poor Terry, good gracious, what a thing to happen. On the opening night too," he shook his head. Barnaby flashed him a sympathetic smile.

"Thank you Mr Arnold, we'll be in touch."

As Mr Arnold turned and shuffled up the aisle in bewilderment, Barnaby turned to his sidekick.

"Anything Scott?"

The dark-haired DS took a deep breath, and pulled a face, consulting his notes,

"A Miss Long recalls Terry Miller having a bit of a barney with a one Henry Kearns, who sits on the theatre board, apparently, Miller had been having an affair with leading lady Abigail Shaw, also married."

Barnaby looked round at his second-in-command impressed at the knowledge gathered,

"Well now, there's something to start with."

Scott nodded,

"I'd say so Sir,"

Barnaby cast around the huddled cast and audience, who were looking tired, shocked and dazed. He turned back to Scott,

"Have uniform take everyone's name and address as well as brief statements then send everyone home. Can't keep them here all night."

Scott nodded,

"Right."

Barnaby watched Scott head off towards the uniformed officers, and let him co-ordinate the statement-taking operation. He glanced around the theatre, looking up to the main walkway where Miller had tumbled from.

He sighed.

From one murder to another.

Maybe Scott was right. Maybe there was something in the water around Midsomer. He smiled. If only it were alcoholic.


	6. Chapter 6

**Five.**

It took another two hours to take together all the necessary information from the gathered audience and cast, and a further half an hour to let people get home, and organise lifts and services for those too shaken to drive. Then of course, several of the audience members began demanding refunds, which, as Scott had tried to explain to them as they crowded the box office, was probably an issue best left for the morning.

By the time the last of the patrons had left, it was getting on for the early hours of the morning, and Scott was beginning to feel the late night in his eyes, which had gradually been getting more dry and itchy as the night had progressed.

As the last little old lady was walked the short distance to her house by a smiling WPC, Barnaby turned to his DS.

"Well, I believe that's all we can do for now. We can get the lab results from George in the morning, until then I think it's best you try and get some sleep. Might be worth focussing on the alleged relationship with Abigail Shaw also."

Scott smiled inwardly, 'try' and get some sleep? He'd be out like a light.

"How are you getting home?" Scott looked up at the query, his brow furrowing. Good question, he thought, stupidly looking around for Cully's car before realising she was long gone. Barnaby smiled and nodded towards his own saloon.

"Get in."

Scott smiled wearily,

"Thank you Sir."

As Scott reached for the handle of the passenger side door, the relative quiet of the early morning was shattered by an anguished cry. At once, his head sprang up, all signs of exhaustion gone, and scanned the dark car park for the source. Barnaby was casting around too, looking equally startled.

Scott spotted the commotion first. A youngish woman was cowering beside a small red car, half-shielded by the enthusiastic ivy creeping up the side of the old theatre building. Standing over her, one hand out, as if demanding something, was a hooded figure.

"Sir!"

Scott was halfway across the car park at once. On seeing the movement, the figure turned its head briefly to take him in, peering back at the woman, his posture bordering on confusion. As Barnaby watched the scene with a frown, the dark figure made a decision, and took off in the darkness of the surrounding woodland cover, blending into the shadows.

As the commotion died down, Barnaby pushed aside his reservations and set off after his sidekick, who had already reached the car.

The dark figure had already gone. Scott knew that. There was no hope chasing blindly through woodland in the middle of the night. It was dangerous, and knowing his luck, he'd probably get lost. Instead he turned his attentions back to the cowering woman, whose head was buried in her hands.

He crouched beside her slowly, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. She flinched sharply, looking up. He smiled warmly,

"It's alright. You ok?"

She took in his face slowly, her eyes tracing his features almost softly. Gently she nodded, and took a deep breath, pushing back a strand of short black hair.

"Y-yes. Yes I think so," she paused, "Thank you."

Scott smiled back at her, seeing his comfy bed slipping further away. A breathless intake of breath and heavy footsteps announced Barnaby's arrival, and he stopped beside them, hands on his knees.

"Did you see his face?"

Scott shook his head,

"No Sir."

Barnaby straightened up, colour flushing to his cheeks and looked over at the woman, who stood slowly, leaning back against the car for support.

"Are you all right?" he asked. She nodded, glancing at Scott,

"Yes."

Barnaby peered into the gloom of the foliage surrounding the theatre car park,

"Did you see your assailant?" he asked. She paused, eventually shaking her head,

"No. No, I'm afraid I didn't."

Barnaby puffed for breath,

"Did you know what they wanted?"

She shook her head, more quickly this time,

"No. They didn't say…probably after money or something," she gave an apologetic shrug, and Barnaby gave a single nod,

"More than likely. However I suggest you head home…" he paused, looking at her, inviting her to introduce herself. She rushed to comply,

"Mary Saddler. Miss," she added as an afterthought,

"Well Miss. Saddler, I suggest you head home, after all that's happened this evening I think it's best people didn't walk around on their alone,"

She nodded hurriedly,

"Yes. I was heading home before…" she trailed off,

"You ok to get yourself home Miss Saddler?" asked Scott, praying the answer was a yes. She turned to look at him, nodding, an embarrassed smile across her face,

"Oh, yes, I'll be fine."

"Good good," Barnaby nodded. The pair stepped back as she climbed into the car, and watched from the sidelines as she fumbled around in the driver's seat. Adjusting the mirror, placing her handbag on the passenger seat, putting on her seatbelt. As she started up the engine, she turned to look at them out of the window. Her eyes caught Scott's and she nodded and thanks once more. Scott nodded back.

As the small red car trundled out of the car park and down the lane towards the main village street, Barnaby sighed.

"Right, let's head home ourselves Scott, before anything else happens."


	7. Chapter 7

**Six.**

The gravel driveway crunched under the tyres of the blue saloon as Barnaby glided up to the solid-looking wooden door. In the passenger seat, Scott let the crisp winter sunshine stream through the windscreen and abate the shivers the short walk from the office to the car park had brought on.

As Barnaby turned the engine off, both officers peered up at the large, ivy-covered house. The upstairs windows were all wide open despite the chill, and on the ground beside them, strewn across the gravel was a pile of men's clothes, the shirts and jackets ripped and slashed.

"The grieving widow Sir?" asked Scott, his eyes flicking in confusion from the windows to the pile of clothes. Barnaby shrugged, and pulled his jacket close around himself as he opened the door and stepped out into the cold. Scott, sighing as an icy breeze blew into the car, followed suit.

Barnaby, head huddled into the collar of his jacket, rapped briskly on the ornamental door knocker, and turned to watch his frozen looking Sergeant, who was standing a few steps behind him.

A small bronze statuette flew out of nowhere from above them, plummeting to earth with a resounding thud, missing Scott by an inch. The officers exchanged looks, startled, and Scott jumped into the porch with a glance up at the open upstairs windows. As he looked, a box folder flew from one of the windows, landing in the gravel and splitting open, sheets of paper blowing across the driveway.

Barnaby, trying to ignore the situation with stoicism, instead turned his attention to the door, which slowly crept open. A young girl, clutching a worn teddy bear under one arm, thumb clamped firmly in her mouth peered out with big eyes. Barnaby beamed down at her only to find the door wrenched open by an older woman with a greying perm who immediately began to fuss around the girl.

"Kitty! What have I told you about opening the door?"

The girl scampered off without a word, and the woman finally looked up to great her visitors. She looked worn, weary and stressed. She frowned at them in expectation,

"Can I help?"

Barnaby extended his badge and a sympathetic smile,

"Yes. I'm Inspector Barnaby, and this is Sergeant Scott…" behind him, Scott gave his customary nod of recognition, Barnaby continued, "…Mrs. Miller?"

The woman shook her head,

"No no, she's upstairs. Come in, I'll get her."

Barnaby stepped inside the hall, the warmth that hit him proving a great relief. He stamped his shoes on the welcome mat respectfully, resolving to dig out his winter coat when he got home, and frowning slightly as Scott trudged in, oblivious as to the welcome mat he'd been so careful to use.

"I'll get her." Repeated the first woman, heading upstairs.

Scott gazed about the hallway. The mahogany panelling and golden carpets warm against the cold of outside. He peered down a corridor, where a door was ajar at the end, opening into another warmly decorated room. A big pair of eyes was looking back at him, and he smiled at the little girl, who only blinked back at him, smiling around the thumb in her mouth shyly.

There was the sound of footsteps from upstairs, and the first woman appeared back looking apprehensive and a little embarrassed.

"Oh dear," she began, playing with the bottom of her cardigan, "I think maybe you'd better come upstairs Inspector."

Barnaby peered up at her, mildly surprised, his apprehension growing by the minute. As the woman disappeared back up the stairs Barnaby threw a look towards his sergeant.

"You'd better stay here."

Scott nodded, not in the least disappointed.

"Yes sir."

After a night of murder, snappy witnesses and nighttime attacks, he could easily do without a furious widow tearing her house apart room by room. No, best leave that one to the boss, he thought as the commotion upstairs raged overhead.

Yes definitely one for the DCI.

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Thanks for all the comments. Love reading them after a long day!


	8. Chapter 8

**Seven.**

The bedroom was in complete disarray. Sheets lay in heaps on the carpet, stripped from the big double bed which was covered with folders, files and sheets of paper. The doors to the built-in wardrobes had been pushed back and clothes dotted the room where they'd been ripped from hangers.

In the middle of it all stood a petite blonde woman swathed in a pink dressing gown and scattering items out of the wide-open windows.

"Err – Mrs Miller?"

Barnaby hovered on the threshold in amazement, the first woman to one side wringing her hands anxiously.

"Lorraine!" she hissed.

The woman in pink paused to look up, her face seemed emotionless, her tone brisk.

"I suppose you are with the police?" she inquired calmly, bending to collect an armful of men's clothing.

"Yes. I'm detective chief inspector Barnaby," he smiled warmly at her, the grin fading as she strode past him with a large bundle, heading for the bathroom. He followed, trying to maintain control of the situation, "I've just got a few questions I'd like to ask if it's not too much trouble…I'm aware it's a sensitive time…"

By now the three of them were in the bathroom, where Mrs Miller had flung the clothes into the bath.

"No not at all," she replied, by now rummaging around in one of the cabinets, "Ask away."

There was a startled pause.

"Err – right….," Barnaby cleared his throat, "In that case where were you last night at nine o'clock Mrs Miller?"

"Lorraine please."

"…very well."

"I was here." Brief and to the point. Barnaby nodded,

"Do you have any wit – ," it was here he paused as Mrs Miller twisted the cap off a bottle of bleach and poured it into the tub across the shirts.

"Lorraine!" the woman to his side gasped, hands to her mouth.

"Oh please mother! These are my things now, I'll do with them as I please…and as for the witness to my presence here last night, there was only myself and my daughter. Do feel free to question her inspector, she's recently learnt her alphabet, she should be a great help." She tossed the empty bottle in with the mess and strode back towards the bedroom, appalled mother and bewildered policeman in tow.

Barnaby paused, careful how he worded the next question, although taking a look around the room had pretty much already answered it for him.

"Mrs Miller…Lorraine, I take it you were aware that there are allegations of…infidelity against your husband?"

She snorted loudly,

"With that little tramp Abby Shaw. Oh yes, I knew about it all right."

As she continued with her campaign of destruction, Barnaby smiled one final time.

"Very well Mrs Miller. Thank you for your help. I'm…I'm sorry for your loss."

Another snort.

"Don't be."

It wasn't until they were out of earshot that Mrs Miller's mother spoke again, her voice quiet and ashamed.

"I'm terribly sorry inspector."

"Whatever for Mrs…"

"Whittaker, Barbara Whittaker. I'm a very proud woman Mr Barnaby, like my mother before me, I dare say it's a family trait, and for my daughter to be behaving like this well –,"

As they plodded down the stairs, Barnaby threw one of his famous good-natured smiles at her.

"Don't be embarrassed. She has just lost her husband under rather horrific circumstances, how she handles her grief is neither the business of myself or the police."

Barbara smiled,

"No, no of course. You're right."

Scott came to greet them as they stepped down into the hallway, obviously itching to know what had happened upstairs as the smell of bleach wafted about the house and more sheets of paper fluttered down from the first floor windows.

At the front door, Kitty wandered shyly out of the sitting room, trailing a comfort blanket in her wake. She padded quietly across the carpet to stand beside her grandmother's leg. The woman ruffled her hair affectionately.

"Poor little mite, she doesn't understand what's happening do you sweetheart?"

Kitty unplugged her thumb from her mouth,

"Bright light," she whispered.

Barnaby frowned,

"Bright light?"

Barbara soothed her gently, the sorrow playing across her face,

"Yes Kitty dear," she replied softly, "Daddy's in heaven now. Bright lights and angels."

His own memories of Cully as a small girl kicking in, Barnaby beamed down at the pretty little child, smiling warmly. Beside him Barbara sighed,

"I just hope you catch whoever did this to us as quickly as possible Inspector, hopefully then we can start to rebuild our lives."

As Scott stepped forward to open the front door, Barnaby turned his smile to the woman,

"We'll try our best," he replied, "We always try our best."

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Well, another chapter, and I'm cracking along with the rest of it too – that is, I've got it all worked out at least! Hopefully it should be quite a twist, but not too out there! Lol! Thanks for my lovely feedback, I'm glad my story is being enjoyed, particularly Greenleaf's Daughter – ta very much for your prompt reviews! Hope you enjoy this one too!


	9. Chapter 9

**Eight.**

"She sounds barking sir," Scott observed dryly from the passenger seat as the jag crackled over the gravel drive and reversed back out into the road.

"Her husband has just been murdered Scott," Barnaby replied, peering carefully into the rear-view mirror in an effort to avoid the potted shrubs lining the driveway.

"Yeah, but she's not exactly acting like it is she?" his DS continued, "I mean, when you go sir, you hardly want to think of Mrs Barnaby popping the top off a bottle of industrial cleaner and dowsing your threads do you?"

Barnaby regarded his sergeant with an expression of mild amusement.

"No I don't."

"Well in that case then, Mrs Miller's hardly your typical widow sir."

Barnaby had to admit that Scott had a point. To say he'd been a little surprised by the actions of the bereaved woman would have been an understatement of a substantial size. But it was still early in the investigation and they only had one witness seen to, there was a long way to go yet. He smiled.

"So she's your suspect is she?"

Scott shrugged,

"At the moment maybe. She's certainly got a motive." He paused, "What about her alibi?"

"Ah," Barnaby sighed, "That might be a problem."

"How's that?"

"Because her only witness to having been in all night is a small girl."

"Ah."

"Precisely."

Maybe Scott had a point. Maybe some things never were simple in the country. Still, things were beautiful in the country at least, and the area around Midsomer was no exception. Dense copse and woodland areas of tall, old trees, rolling green fields of swaying grasses, cobble-stoned fords, babbling brooks and rivers and the scattered country hamlets and villages of old beamed buildings and thatched roofs, yes, beautiful was a very apt description.

As he caught sight of Scott's face in his mirror, Barnaby couldn't help but smile wider. Beautiful to some that was.

It was only a short drive into the village, and he pulled the car up alongside the newly trimmed green, anxiously awaiting the first cricket match of the season. They were there to see Bradford Shaw, wife to the unfaithful Abigail, and, naturally, one of their prime suspects.

The Shaws lived in one of the small-whitewashed cottages that flanked the roadside, bordered by a well-maintained garden. The doorbell was an old servant's bell hung up beside the porch and Barnaby jangled it cheerily, stepping back off the doorstep as Scott came to stand to one side.

They waited.

"Looks like no one's home," the sergeant offered helpfully. Barnaby sighed, gazing around the village for someone to assist them.

"No…" His eyes fell on a small post office nestled beside one of the larger houses, the front almost obscured by an over-grown wall-plant. Scott followed his boss' gaze, guessing what it was leading to.

"I'll go and ask shall I sir?"

"If you wouldn't mind sergeant."

Even if Scott had minded there would have been very little point in mentioning it. Barnaby was not a DCI for nothing, and if there was one reason he needed a DS then it was to take care of the more menial aspects of a case. He knew that much, and only because he himself used the same tactics with the DCs. Well, he was a sergeant after all.

The post office, though half-hidden, seemed crammed full of anything and everything that the village residents could ever have wished for, from food to nick-knacks, from magazines to toiletries. It took him a minute or two to even locate the postmaster amongst the bulging shelves, a little man with half-rimmed glasses and wild white hair.

"Excuse me?"

The beady little eyes snapped in his direction,

"Yis laddie, what can I do you for?"

"Some information please," Scott flipped out his badge, feeling a glow of pride as the man regarded him with new respect, "Bradford Shaw, do you know where he might be?"

"Hmmm…" the man paused, eyes glittering with interest, "Here to arrest him are you?"

"Why? What's he done?" Scott asked coolly. The man chuckled,

"You're telling me his wife's lover is murdered and you're not getting the cuffs out for him?"

The DS smiled back shrewdly,

"Well how can I if I don't know where he is?"

The response elicited another chuckle followed, finally, by something helpful,

"Pub. 'Cross the road, he'll be propping up the bar all right!"

Scott nodded,

"Thank you."

As he turned to go, he collided with someone standing behind them, sending a newspaper crashing to the floor.

"Sorr – " but Scott's apology stopped short as he recognised the woman stood before him, "Miss Saddler isn't it?"

She beamed brightly, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Yes, you err – well, came to my rescue last night."

"Of course. How are you feeling now?"

"Well," she blushed again, seemingly flustered by the attention, "I'll be fine, especially with all the police milling around the village at the moment."

Scott bent to collect her paper,

"Yeah well, that doesn't mean you can keep getting yourself into trouble now," he grinned cheekily and handed it back to her.

"Thank you sergeant Scott," she smiled shyly. He frowned,

"How did you – ?"

"Oh, you told me your name last night," suddenly it was her turn to frown, "Don't you remember?"

The brash Londoner laughed, shaking his head and running a hand across his face,

"No, but, then again it was a pretty long night."

"Oh yes, yes I'm sure it was."

A small silence settled between the pair and Scott took a breath, trying to work out the best way of politely extracting himself from the conversation.

"Well, I'd better get going. It was nice to meet you again."

"And you."

As he stepped towards the door she turned and called out to him again,

"Oh, sergeant!" he looked back towards her, "I was thinking about who could have attacked me last night, and I…I think I might know who it was."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. I think it could have been Mitch Cannaby, my…well, my ex-boyfriend. He's an usher at the theatre most weeks."

Scott nodded,

"Well, thank you Miss Saddler, we'll certainly look into it for you."

As he exited, Mary stared out after him nervously.

"Thank you."

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Ok, because I'm so good – and have nearly finished, I thought I'd just go and put a whole bunch of chapters up. So, here's the first. Enjoy!


	10. Chapter 10

**Nine.**

The pub, surprisingly enough for a lunchtime, was fairly quiet. Except for an unkempt looking drunk at the bar, a gruff looking landlord and a middle-aged man crying bitterly into his pint.

That man, as it turned out, was Bradford Shaw.

"You think it was me don't you?" he croaked miserably. Barnaby gave him his best smile,

"Why should we mister Shaw?"

"Because Terry's dead."

They couldn't argue with that, not that they wanted to. Scott, as usual, was eager to pursue the more sordid of their lines of inquiry.

"Mr. Shaw, I gather you are aware of the allegations involving Mr Miller and your wife?"

It was as tears welled in the man's puffy eyes that Barnaby shot a look of exasperation towards his DS. Scott sighed, that was a 'yes' then. He scribbled it down.

There was very little questioning of the man after that, but the drunken man at the bar verified Shaw's alibi, which was followed, a little more helpfully, by the bartender's confirmation as well. So, with fewer questions than they'd hoped for answered, the two detectives set off in search of Mrs Shaw, a teacher at the local primary just across the green.

"I don't know sir," Scott sighed as he picked his way across the newly painted white lines, "I'm used to guilty men crying – usually because they've been caught – but bawling your eyes out over something you didn't do? That's a new one for me."

Barnaby threw his eyes skywards,

"Perhaps he was feeling a pang of sympathy for a former neighbour Scott."

The dark-haired Londoner snorted his disapproval,

"For a man who'd been messing around with his wife? I doubt it sir. He'd want to rip him to shreds."

"And you'd know would you?" the DCI asked with a hint of amusement. The reply he received was typical of the sort of thing he'd come to expect over the months.

"Well, being chased about a tower block in your boxers tends to make something of an impression sir." He pushed casually against the wrought-iron gate of the school, letting himself in across the tarmac playground. Barnaby stood behind him in bemusement.

"I should imagine it does."

Mrs Shaw was a tall thin woman with long brown hair and red eyes, another victim of the grief that seemed to be sweeping the village – with the exception of Mrs Miller that was. As the children poured out of the classrooms and along the corridors towards their waiting lunchboxes, Mrs Shaw beckoned the policemen into the empty classroom and into chairs.

Barnaby, fast reaching that age when the various joints in his knees and back refused to work properly, lowered himself into the tiny nursery chair with difficulty, glancing across at his tall DS, who was having similar problems, his knees up somewhere around his chin, both of them feeling utterly ridiculous.

Scott cleared his throat, mustering the dignity he had left.

"Mrs Shaw, we need ask you some questions if that's all right with you?"

She nodded mutely.

"We have reason to believe that you and Mr Miller were involved in an extra-marital affair…" her eyes snapped up to meet his, "…is that a correct?"

For a second it seemed as though she was going to deny it, but at the last moment she sighed and slumped back into her chair with dejection. She nodded silently again. Scott duly noted the admission.

"Mrs Shaw," Barnaby sat forward with his nice-guy smile firmly in place, "I hope you don't mind us asking."

She sniffed and dabbed at teary eyes with a screwed tissue she'd pulled from her sleeve.

"No, no I do understand…it's just…oh dear…" as she broke off to stifle a sob, Scott looked away uncomfortably, glancing around the room at the haphazard artwork of her class. Colourful handprints, paper cups decorated with dried pasta and big paper sheep stuck with balls of cotton wool. Finally she composed herself and Barnaby tried again. There was no point in pressing her for an alibi, she had been backstage at the time, something confirmed, somewhat reluctantly, by Miss Long, the not-so-cheery woman Scott had first interviewed.

"Mrs Shaw, do you know of anyone that might want Mr Miller dead?"

The list, as it turned out, was fairly long. As well as Mrs Miller and her mother for the infidelity, it turned out he had been widely despised by the theatre community at large.

As the schoolteacher sat and reeled off name after name, Scott bit back a long, weary sigh.

Every day was a long day in the country.


	11. Chapter 11

**Ten.**

Scott had managed to get a reprieve from the case.

Sitting watching his sergeant's drooping eyes, Barnaby had chuckled and sent him home early, dispersing the tedium of interviewing suspects amongst the rest of the department, who were only too eager to help.

So why the weary DS had found himself sitting outside the theatre he had no idea. He should have been in bed by rights, he had earned it after all. But he had promised Mary Saddler he would ask her ex-boyfriend about the attack and he was going to…briefly anyway. Then bed.

The place was deserted. His car one of only two or three occupying the shoddily painted lines to the front of the tall brick building. Closed signs hung across the doors and someone had pinned a notice over the big board that had proudly displayed the title of the play only a few or two ago. Was it just one day ago? Scott rubbed his eyes wearily, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Slowly he clambered out of the car, pulling the folds of his jacket close against the bitter wind. At least in London there had always been a building to shelter behind when the weather kicked in. He sighed.

Despite looking empty, Scott knew that there were people shuffling about in the theatre, the door to a cleaning cupboard hanging open, and various brooms and mops pulled out and leant against the wall for use.

He banged loudly on the glass pulling his badge out with his free hand as a surprised looking man appeared from the auditorium.

"Police!" Scott yelled through the double doors, watching as the man came forward to let him in.

"Yeah?" It was a short, sharp question that hit him as soon as he stepped in onto the bristled entrance mat. "What do you want?"

He didn't much care for the tone, and although he was too tired to care completely, he couldn't help the tone of annoyance that laced his own reply,

"Mitch Cannaby."

"Why?"

"Are you Mr. Cannaby?"

"No."

"Then that would be none of your business," he snapped testily. The cleaner eyed him warily having caught a hint of the sergeant's temper. Scott took a deep calming breath and tried again,

"Is Mr. Cannaby here?"

"Yes," the man conceded grudgingly, "He's here. He's round the back. You want me to show you?"

Scott was led through the empty auditorium into the backstage area he had been interviewing in on the night of the murder – which felt like years ago. The cleaner, not too eager to stay in his company, took him through into the costume department, a small, musty-smelling room cramped with rail upon rail of battered and faded costumes. Frumpy Victorian crinoline, long flowing medieval dresses, oriental robes and shiny Arabian belly-dancing numbers that certainly hadn't been in the programme when he'd looked.

In the corner, a guy with stubbly short grey hair was stacking boxes of shoes, moving into the dusty hidden areas with a broom.

"Mitch!" the cleaner shouted louder than was necessary, he jerked a thumb towards Scott, "Police," then he was gone again.

Mitch Cannaby stopped his sweeping to regard Scott with interest, leaning casually against the broom handle and staring at him with sharp eyes.

"Police eh? Here about the murder?"

Picking his way across discarded items, Scott narrowed the distance between them,

"Not at the moment no. I'm here to ask you about Mary Saddler." He stopped to watch for a reaction.

"Oh," he groaned in reply, his tone disinterested, "What about her?"

"She was attacked."

This caught the man's attention and he looked up,

"Attacked? Who by?"

Scott quirked a brow at him,

"I was hoping you could tell me."

The sentence took a while to sink in, Mitch simply blinking at him as the words hit home. Hurriedly, he held up his hands,

"Now look here, you can't go around blaming me for everything that happens to that woman…"

Scott calm composure never left him,

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I'm the ex aren't I?" the man was getting flustered now, "It was never going to look good for me!"

"Do you have an alibi for last night?"

"An alibi?"

"Yes," despite his state of exhaustion, Scott still had the energy for flippancy, "We tend to find them quite helpful in events like these."

The man narrowed his eyes at him,

"I was here."

"All night?"

"All night."

A smile tugged at the edge of Scott's lips as the man bit back at him, and he took a deep breath, irritatingly calm against the emotions of Cannaby.

"Can anyone back you up on that?"

"Well…anyone who was here. I was backstage all night."

"You didn't leave for any reason?"

"No."

"Can anyone verify that you were indeed backstage all evening?"

The defiance flared,

"No."

Sensing that the man was either about to shout or use his broom in a most unpleasant manner, Scott decided that enough was enough for one evening. He'd done as he'd promised and been to see Cannaby, and come to the conclusion that he didn't care for him. Evidence, if indeed it was Cannaby, could come later. Preferably after sleep.

"You don't know what she's like do you?" Mitch asked with a sneer,

"I wouldn't like to offer a guess, no," here Scott smirked at him patronizingly, "But thank you Mr. Cannaby," he turned to leave, images of feathery pillows drifting around his brain, "I'm sure we'll be in touch."


	12. Chapter 12

**Eleven.**

Scott jerked awake as his mobile phone went off, pouring out bright light from the small screen, and bathing the room in a luminous blue glow that proved surprisingly blinding.

Scott groaned as he rolled over to face the bedside table, his eyes screwed shut against the brightness wishing his ears could do the same as the repetitive strains of the Nokia theme assaulted his sleep-fuddled brain. He flung out a hand, fumbling clumsily over the bedside table and groaning as he listened to his watch slide across the wood and thud onto the carpet.

Not again.

Grasping his phone, he squinted sleepily at the buttons before him, pressing one and holding it to his ear,

"Hello?" He mumbled, running a hand over his face in exhaustion.

"Scott?"

"Sir," he replied drowsily looking over at his alarm clock, 4:00am, a mild improvement.

"Scott, I'm on my way to pick you up, I know who killed Terry Miller."

Scott blinked blearily around his room, trying to establish some focus, and gave a sleepy nod.

"Ok Sir. Be ready in five."

In actuality, it took longer than five minutes, because although he was up, dressed and dosed with coffee in that time, he couldn't for the life of him find his badge. He couldn't even the remember the last time he'd seen it, which didn't surprise him greatly, he didn't seem to remember much about the few minutes it had taken him to get from his front door into his bed – he didn't even remember opening the window he's awoken to find blowing a gale into the room. The earlier part of the evening was something of a dull memory. Not that it helped him find his badge.

"Ready Scott?" Barnaby chirped as his groggy sergeant clambered into the passenger seat with a yawn,

"Not particularly sir," he mumbled, settling back into the familiar upholstery, "I couldn't find my badge."

Barnaby frowned,

"Couldn't find it? What? You've lost it?"

"Misplaced," came the sleepy reply. Barnaby decided not to push it further, fearing the DS' mood might not withstand a lecture on the importance of one's identification. Instead, he pressed on with the case.

"It was Mrs. Miller," he began suddenly. Scott blinked,

"Sorry sir?"

"Mrs. Miller," he reaffirmed, clearly rehearsing his speech for when he came face to face with his suspect, "On the night of the murder, Mrs Miller took her daughter backstage to confront her husband. No one would have noticed her in the confusion of the performance…"

Scott agreed wearily. The play had been a confusion.

"…She followed him up into the lighting area…"

Suddenly the DS managed to catch up with his boss' train of thought, the sleep vanishing momentarily as the pieces slid into place for him too,

"So when Kitty Miller was talking about bright lights, she meant stage lights, not heaven and angels like her grandmother thought."

"Precisely, and when Terry refused to appologise for his actions, she took out a knife she had stolen from the prop department and stabbed him, using her knowledge as member of the theatre board to make good her escape."

Scott stifled another yawn,

"Ingenious."

His boss didn't quite catch the cynicism,

"Indeed."

From the depths of his pocket, Scott felt his phone vibrate and delved a hand deep into the folds as he tried to work it loose. He flipped it open and pressed it to his ear, rubbing at his brow with a free hand,

"Hello?…" Nothing, "…Hello?" As the line went dead he flipped it shut, cursing, amongst other things, the country's appalling mobile phone reception. Suddenly he paused,

"So hang on a minute sir? You're telling me this is a case of a jealous wife killing her husband?"

Barnaby frowned,

"Well…yes." He listened to his sergeant chuckle in amazement.

Maybe things were easy in the country after all.


	13. Chapter 13

**Twelve.**

For the second time in as many days, Barnaby had sent Scott home early. Better having him asleep in bed than on his desk. The case had been fairly short and fairly straight forward, as had the arrest as soon as the spatula had been wrenched from Lorraine Miller's hand.

Barbara had of course, been devastated by her daughter's actions and Barnaby had taken it upon himself to sit with her until she'd had the strength to be interviewed by a friendly-looking WPC. By the time he'd left, she'd been determined to stay strong for her granddaughter, and the DCI had no reservations that she would not.

So now, it was just a matter of paperwork, and rather a lot of it as well. As he wound his way around the cluttered desks of his colleagues, he felt glad that Scott was not present, paperwork had never really suited the Londoner, and his moods tended to blacken around it.

It was as he scooted to one side to avoid a woman carrying a hot mug of tea, that he collided with a mound of files on someone's desk, sending the pile to the floor.

"Oh I'm terribly sorry!" he gushed, turning to survey the mess. Behind the desk, a frazzled-looking DC newly promoted from uniform sighed,

"It's ok sir," he muttered dejectedly.

Barnaby stooped to rectify the situation,

"Here, let me help."

He began to pick up great handfuls of paper, depositing them in any order onto the desktop, much to the bemusement of the detective, for whom several hours of careful organising had just been ruined,

"You don't have to sir," he interjected weakly, showing no signs of lending a hand himself.

Suddenly Barnaby paused, a glossy photograph in his fingers, he was peering at it with interest. The DC leant forward to take a look,

"Oh, that's – ," he didn't get to finish, Barnaby already knew who it was,

"Mary Saddler."

"That's right sir."

The DCI put it onto the desk with the rest of the sheets,

"Investigating her attack are you?"

"Err, no sir, that's an old file – unrelated incident."

Maybe it was the years of policing that did it, maybe it was gut instinct, but suddenly, Barnaby was intrigued,

"What kind of incident?"

"Stalking."

He raised his brows,

"She had a stalker?"

"No, no. She _was_ one," the DC realised his mistake, "Allegedly."

Barnaby narrowed his eyes,

"Who brought the charges?"

"Err – ," the younger detective studied the papers before him, leafing through until he found the right one, "A Mr. Mitch Cannaby, the ex-boyfriend."

The name rang a bell, he was sure it was the same man Scott had mentioned Mary Saddler as having accused of her night-time attack.

"When was this?"

More checking of facts,

"A month ago."

It was all very interesting. The detective leant forward,

"These were in here too sir," he handed over a small plastic bag containing a pair of earrings, "Cannaby brought them in to return to her, only I guess no one ever did."

Barnaby took them up, smiling at the young man,

"Thank you Duncan. I'll see to it."

As one case closed, another one opened. Barnaby frowned, grabbing the keys off the edge of his desk. The paperwork could wait.


	14. Chapter 14

**Thirteen.**

It was dusk when he woke, and for some reason he felt worse than he had before he'd fallen asleep. His eyes were cloudy, his brain sleep-addled, his limbs utterly uncooperative and the whole of him confused as to where he was and what was happening.

It didn't take him long to work out. His bedroom, his mobile phone ringing. Again. He wanted to scream.

He sat himself up slowly, casting around the room. His phone wasn't on the bedside table where he usually left it, and now, on top of feeling like the living dead, he had to go on a manhunt around his increasingly messy-looking flat.

As he approached his trousers, screwed in a ball on the floor, the ear-piercing notes grew louder and he upended the clothes roughly, shaking them until the phone fell out onto the floor with a dull thud.

He didn't recognise the number, largely because he couldn't really see it and scrubbing at his eyes he raised it to his ear,

"Yeah," It was more of a croak than a word,

"Detective?"

The voice sounded tentative, but familiar all the same,

"This is sergeant Scott, yes."

"It's Mitch, Mitch Cannaby…w-we met in the theatre yesterday?" there was a strange waver in his voice,

"Yes Mr Cannaby, what can I do for you?" as he waited, Scott wondered how the man had managed to get hold of his number, he didn't recall giving it to him, not that he recalled a lot of his activities over the last few days. When the reply came he almost missed it,

"I – I need you to come down to the theatre."

Scott blinked,

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

There was a short paused,

"Something's happened. I need you to come here and sort it out."

Scott sighed, totally confused.

"Mr Cannaby, I'm not currently on duty at the moment, but if you need the police, I'm sure my colleagues at the station would be – ," he didn't get the chance to finish.

"NO! I need you to come here now! Please!"

To say Scott was displeased at being shouted at was an understatement, and it was only the additional and rather timid 'please' that had prevented him from putting the phone down. Quietly Mitch tried another angle,

"I – it won't take long."

Scott sighed, rubbing again at his eyes. He couldn't believe this was happening to him again.

"Fine. I'll be there when I can."

He didn't wait to hear the reply and snapped the lid down angrily. His gaze slid to the crumpled trousers and he groaned loudly. They, as well as him, would just have to last a little bit longer.

As he moved about getting ready, he left a message for the DCI, figuring that the Mary Saddler case wouldn't really interest him, but would at least give someone else an idea of Scott's movements in case he forgot them all the next day, which seemed highly likely.

He flicked the kettle on with some effort, pulling down a mug and the rapidly emptying coffee jar. Just a few more hours, he told himself wearily, just a few more hours.

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Two more chapters today…aren't I good to you? Lol!


	15. Chapter 15

**Fourteen.**

"Miss Saddler?" Barnaby called from the sunken brick path in the front garden. There was no reply, nor had there been when he'd rung the doorbell. Still, Barnaby had not made Chief Inspector by giving up easily.

It was a small little cottage, pretty, built in red brick with tall green ivy winding its way across the masonry and small flowerbeds of peonies and pansies.

He let himself around the back, into a long thin garden dotted with vegetable patches, clearly Mary Saddler was a woman who enjoyed rural life. Closer to the back of the house, there was a small patio with a wrought iron table, a cat was sitting on top licking his paws calmly, eyeing Barnaby with suspicion.

The little back door, painted yellow, faced onto the sunset-drenched patio and he went up to it and peered through the latticed windows.

His phone beeped in his jacket pocket, and he pulled it out, stabbing at a button he hoped was right. Not that he wasn't willing to work with modern technology of course, it just so happened that most of the time _it_ wasn't willing to work with _him_.

"Hello?" still peering through the window, it took him a good few seconds to work out that it was a message and not a live conversation he was listening to. It was Scott.

"Sir, Scott here. Just got a call from Mitch Cannaby, wants me to meet him at the theatre, not sure why but I'm on my way there now. I'll let you know if it's anything important."

As the message clicked off, Barnaby pushed at the yellow door gently. It swung in at once, and he found himself looking into a little kitchen.

"Miss Saddler?" the cat ran in past him to a plate of food and Barnaby stepped over the threshold, "Miss Saddler, it's Chief Inspector Barnaby."

He wasn't sure why he was still shouting when it was obvious she wasn't in, still, he wasn't very confident about wandering un-permitted around someone's house when they weren't in, and the longer he pretended they might be, the better it made him feel.

By now he'd reached the small sitting room and his eyes were instantly drawn to a desk scattered with items. A few were photos of a man and several loose keys, one blank sheet of paper seemed entirely filled with little doodles and unfinished games of hangman in which the words were still not guessed but the drawings complete. Next to them lay a diary, which, after opening carefully, Barnaby found had a rough entry scrawled across the date. He peered at it, muttering the words to himself.

"Mitchell, Marette."

He thought about it for a while, casting around the untidy room. It came to him suddenly.

"Mitchell Cannaby, the Marette Wilson Theatre."

So that was where she was. Guilty at having snooped around her room Barnaby went to put the organiser back, a thought crossing his mind as he did.

Wasn't Scott going to meet Mitch at the theatre?

The thud of something dropping to the floor turned his attentions, and he stooped to collect the black item from the carpet. As he did, his blood ran cold. Something was definitely not right.

Lying in the palm of his hand, was Scott's badge.

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Mwahaha!


	16. Chapter 16

**Fifteen.**

The theatre was once again in darkness, or at least, it was from the entrance hall onwards. Scott had arrived via taxi, fully expecting to be greeted in the car park. Instead he had found himself alone outside the deserted building, and feeling annoyed, had let himself in.

"Hello?" an eerie silence was his only reply, "Mr. Cannaby."

As he stood in the empty lobby looking at the shuttered concessions stand he heard a noise from inside the auditorium, the sound of scraping, like a chair being pulled across a hard floor. He walked towards it.

The hall was almost completely black with only the footlights beside the seating lighting up the aisles and a dull white beam casting down onto the stage.

Scott froze. Lying directly underneath the beam was a body. It was Cannaby.

"Mr. Cannaby?" Scott ran the rest of the way, taking the small steps onto the stage two at a time, "Can you hear me?"

The man had taken a blow to the back of the head, and blood matted his hair. As Scott knelt down to try and feel for a pulse, the cleaner's eyes flickered and then opened.

"Can you hear me Mr. Cannaby?" Scott tried again.

"Sergeant?" he croaked in reply, the one word clearly exhausting and confusing him.

"Yes, sergeant Scott, you called me here remember?"

He didn't really seem like he did. Scott pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, pressing it to the back of the head wound.

"Hold this tightly all right? I'm going to phone an ambulance."

Scott stood up again, fumbling for his mobile phone, he pulled it out and glanced at the screen. No signal, perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. He moved around with it held aloft, trying to vein to regenerate some connection.

"Come on, come on you bloody stupid thing," he muttered angrily, "Yes!"

Just as a single bar flickered up onto the screen, there was a loud bang and a bright beam of light illuminated the entire stage and blinded him. In an instant, any initial thoughts he'd had of Mitch's injury being an accident vanished.

As he spun around wildly looking for a patch of darkness to let his eyes readjust, something hit him over the head and with his stomach lurching and his head spinning in pain, he tumbled over onto the floor.

"What the – ," the blow hadn't been as harsh as that dealt to Mitch, partly he suspected with a policeman's logic, because he had been busy twisting and turning, but there was still no mistaking the sticky sensation of blood on his fingers as he moved to press his hand against the gash.

"Daniel," the voice took him by surprise, it was female, soft and calm. He peered into the brightness, a silhouette was walking steadily towards him, "Daniel."

He frowned, as she stopped before him,

"Miss Saddler?"

She smiled on hearing her name, obviously pleased he'd remembered,

"Yes."

"What are you doing? You need to call an ambulance," with a great deal of effort Scott pushed himself up into a semi-sitting position.

"He wasn't a very good boyfriend," she commented sadly, glancing across at Mitch.

"What?"

She looked back at him,

"He attacked me. You know he did."

That was it then. She was loopy, or barking as he had earlier, and correctly, stated about Lorraine Miller. Clearly there was a disposition within the area to turn into a crazed murderess whenever slighted. Scott took a deep breath, he needed to keep things calm,

"Mary, he's bleeding pretty heavily. He needs to get to a hospital."

She regarded him with curiosity, as if seeing him properly for the first time,

"And you saved me."

"Yes, yes I did. I'm a policeman, it's my job. You don't need to punish Mitch, we will do that. He will be charged."

"I wanted to show you."

Scott frowned, his head was splitting and her short and rather vague sentences weren't helping the situation. He pushed himself up onto his knees,

"Show me what?" he asked through gritted teeth,

She smiled widely, lifting something up from behind her, something that caught the glare of the lights and half-blinded him again. It was a golf club. He winced, no wonder it had hurt so much.

"I can look after myself if I have to."

Slowly, Scott forced himself into a wobbly standing position,

"I'm sure you can," he touched his head gingerly, "I know you can."

"But I want you to love me."

It was a simple statement, said very matter-of-factly, and for a second Scott thought he had misheard her,

"Do what?"

"I want you to love me."

"Look, you could've just asked me for a drink, you didn't need to beat your ex up in front of me."

Her face crumpled in disappointment,

"I didn't want your pity. You don't need to protect me," she let the club fall to her side, her fingers still tight around the handle, "Just be with me."

She moved towards him, arms outstretched to wrap around him. He caught the golf club instead, not in any mood to continue with the games,

"Listen," he snapped, "This isn't going any further. Mary Saddler, you are under arrest for assault, you do not have to say anything – ," as his free hands went to the cuffs tucked habitually into his back pocket, Mary wrenched free of his grasp with surprising speed and aggression, turning the club towards him, holding it above her head like a hatchet.

He just managed to catch it as she brought it down towards him, ignoring the pain as it cracked painfully against his hand, simply grateful it wasn't his head.

Still gripping on, she screamed loudly, a red mist descending as she battled, trying to pull it from him. However hard she tried though, Scott was still the stronger of the two, despite being sleep-deprived, concussed and in pain. He gripped it tightly in both hands, pulling it about so that Mary's only option was to spin around with it. As she careered wildly across the black painted floorboards, the stage gave way to thin air and she collapsed down into the front row of the seats landing heavily. Scott was straight down with her, hands working frantically at the cuffs.

As the click of the mechanism echoed throughout the hall, the double doors banged open loudly and uniformed officers flooded the aisles followed breathlessly by Barnaby.

"Scott?"

He skidded to a halt as his eyes fell on the prone figure laid on the stage. His heart skipped a beat.

"Scott!"

"Sir?" the voice didn't come from the man on the stage but to his left, down in the seats. His eyes flicked in that direction. There, walking towards him with a hand pressed to the back of his head, was his sergeant. The smile of relief was automatic, as was the following grimace of worry.

"You're hurt." It was more a statement than a question. Scott shrugged, letting his chief pull his hand away by the cuff of his jacket. The DS heard the intake of breath, clearly it wasn't good.

"Probably looks worse than it is sir," he commented, suddenly embarrassed by the fuss. He turned round to find Barnaby fixing him with a strange expression he couldn't quite read, fondness? Respect? Bemusement? More than likely it was the last. Finally the older officer nodded, placing a fatherly hand on his sergeant's shoulder, steering him gently towards the door, for once ignoring the melee of the crime scene.

"Well," he said steadily, anticipating the protest that would follow, "Let's just let the doctors establish that shall we Scott?"

The dissent was obvious.

"Yes sir."


	17. Chapter 17

**Sixteen.**

"Hello, what are you still doing here?" Joyce asked as she breezed past the sitting room laden with shopping.

From the depths of his favourite armchair Barnaby looked up over the rims of his glasses and folded his newspaper in half,

"Sorry?"

She bustled back into the hallway to poke her head around the door,

"You're here."

"Yes, I think so."

She tutted good-naturedly,

"I mean weren't you supposed to be collecting Dan today?"

Barnaby smiled back at her,

"Oh it's all right, he's getting home another way."

Joyce stepped into the room with her hands on her hips,

"Tom!" he looked up startled, "You didn't make that poor man take a taxi! As if he hadn't been through enough already, being attacked by a mad woman! The least you can do is go and collect him!"

Barnaby blinked in bemusement, facing the full fury of his wife

"Joyce, rest assured I am not leaving Scott to find his own way home, and I am well aware of what he has been through,"

The hands slid from the hips,

"So how is he getting home?"

Barnaby smirked,

"Cully is picking him up."

He glanced back down at his paper casually, enjoying his wife's silent surprise,

"Cully!" she asked,

"Yes."

Another shocked pause.

"And, you're ok with that are you?"

"Joyce," he chuckled, "She's not a little girl any more."

"Well I know that," she replied, sinking onto the arm of the sofa, "But I wasn't sure you did."

"She offered to pick him up and I thought he'd probably prefer it."

Joyce faltered,

"But…"

"I trust him."

Joyce hardly had time to stop herself from laughing out loud,

"You trust him?" she spluttered. Barnaby stared back at her coolly,

"Yes, I do. I know he's not always been the most…reliable of men when it comes to women but, he cares about Cully and she seems to care about him so…I trust him."

Joyce stared back at him fondly, crossing the room to lean over the side of his chair,

"Well I think it's very sweet of you," she pecked him on the cheek, "You're a good father," she turned and headed out of the room, calling over her shoulder as she went, "And a good boss too. Now come and help with the shopping."

Barnaby put his paper down on the coffee table and stood up with a sigh. He did trust Scott and Cully, maybe he hadn't always, and maybe he'd come to regret it, but at that moment in time he could only wait and see how things turned out, if they did at all. It was like Scott often said, things were always more difficult in the country, and maybe romance was one of them.


	18. Chapter 18

**Seventeen.**

Well, he'd finally done it. He'd finally managed a complete night's sleep. He felt elated, refreshed and ready to face the world, even if he did look a little worse for wear, with the painful looking cut just nestled in the edge of his hairline. Still, at least the bag's under his eyes had gone down, and the stitches gave him a have-a-go-hero look that certainly made the nurses bustle in and out of his room regularly enough. Not that he was complaining.

His stuff lay beside him in a bag, fetched by a worried-looking WPC from his flat after Barnaby had driven him, protesting all the way, to the hospital, where the doctor had insisted on a twenty-four hour watch period in case it was more than just a gash and mild concussion. Much like Mitch Cannaby, who was still a little-worse-for-wear and having the odd bout of amnesia. Scott smiled wryly as his mind flashed over what had happened the night before, thinking that forgetting about the whole thing might not have been such a bad idea.

Where was the DCI?

As if in answer the door to his room opened, and he grabbed his jacket from the chair with a sigh,

"At last Sir," he began as respectfully as possible, "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

"Now how could anyone forget about you?" It wasn't Barnaby's voice, unless he'd had major surgery that was, it was lighter, more cheerful and a lot more welcome than that. He looked up and smiled,

"Cully. There's a surprise."

"A good one I hope."

"Of course."

She smiled back at him shyly, the sudden silence making the situation all the more awkward.

"Err…I know dad was coming to pick you up, but I suggested that he might like to put his feet up for the day…so…" she glanced up and caught sight of the wound, wincing as she did, "Does it hurt much?"

Scott blinked,

"The cut? Nah, not really, not anymore anyway."

Cully regarded him fondly,

"Being a brave boy about it are you?"

He shrugged,

"I try, of course it's not every day you get attacked by a crazed woman who thinks beating her ex-boyfriend to a pulp in front of your eyes is the latest crowd-pleaser."

Cully shook her head sadly,

"Poor woman, to be so obsessed by some man,"

Scott grinned cheekily,

"I know someone else a bit like that though."

Her cheeks flushed hot pink before she could stop herself and she frowned, whispering quietly as her heart sped up in embarrassment,

"Who?"

"Louise," she blinked at him blankly, and he couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face, "You know, Louise, my date from the other night. Roger's friend?"

"Oh," the relief was evident, but so to, he noted with some pleasure, was the disappointment, "Of course, Louise. Yes. You…you think she likes you then?" more disappointment.

"Not me. Roger, she's barmy about him."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Speaking of which, how is dear Rog?"

"Oh," Cully flapped an airy hand and smiled, "I wouldn't know. I don't think Roger and me are destined to be together."

Now it was Scott's turn to hide his feelings on the matter,

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. He's very sweet, but a bit too…"

"Girly?" Scott put in helpfully. Cully ignored him with well-practised ease,

"…Feminine. I think I'd be better suited with someone a bit more, well, manly I suppose," she turned to him with a sigh, clearly eager to change the conversation to something less implicit, "Ready to go?"

Manly? Scott blinked, he could do manly all right. He strode across to the bed, hefting up the bag and throwing it over his shoulder casually,

"Yeah. All set."

"Good."

They turned to leave, Scott careful to hold open the door for her, throwing grateful nods to nurses who wished him well as they negotiated the long corridors.

Cully's car was not so much parked as abandoned in several spaces at once, testament to what a car without power-steering was able to do, and also a hint at her carefree attitude to most things in life. He smiled fondly, throwing the bag carelessly into the back seat.

"There is one thing about that poor woman that I can sympathise with though," Cully ventured at him suddenly from over the top of the car.

He looked up with a frown,

"Oh yeah."

"Yes. There is a certain something about policemen."

And with a wide smile she climbed into the car and shut the door, leaving Scott standing on the other side, grinning to himself.

Well look at that, maybe he was wrong after all.

She leant over from inside,

"Are you getting in?"

He chuckled quietly, climbing in and pulling the door to behind him.

Maybe, just maybe, things were easy in the country after all.

From inside his pocket, his mobile phone started ringing, and, still smiling, he pulled it out, unable to keep the cheer from his voice.

"D.S Scott."

"Scott? It's Barnaby, there's been a murder…"

He sighed.

Of course, maybe not.

END.

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Ta-da! There it is people! Done, dusted, sorted, finito, complete, at an end and all those sorts of things. I hope you liked it, and, since it's only taken a couple of years to write (on-off-on and off again) I have to say I'm very satisfied to write that last word. I'm pretty fond of this one now, so be nice (as you always are) and I hope you enjoyed it.

Many thanks for all the reviews, and happy reading in the future!


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